


August is the cruellest month

by Hay_Bails



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Family, Feels, Finished, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Sad, Slow Burn, stanchez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:09:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: Rick shows up shitfaced at the Mystery Shack with Morty, begging Stanley Pines to take them in - but will Stan forgive Rick for leaving him after the Colombian prison fiasco? And what dark secret is Rick hiding? Warnings for minor character death and Stanchez/past Stanchez. (Also alcoholism, but you're reading a Rick and Morty fic so you knew what you were getting into.)Finished.





	1. Chapter 1

            “Um… hello?” Morty called out uncertainly, his knuckles tapping quietly at the wood of the door. His eyes flashed back to the spaceship, where Rick was passed out atop a small mountain of bottles.

            Why had the autopilot brought them _here?_ Morty shivered in the cold as he waited, possibly in vain, for someone to answer. He rubbed at the gooseflesh covering his bare arms. _‘Mystery Shack,’_ he read again. The letter S had fallen from the roof, leaving the sign to display a rather less impressive _‘Mystery hack.’_

            “Whaddya want?” a grizzled voice growled from inside. A light flickered on in the window after a quick, static protest.

            “Oh! You’re home. Um… h-hello,” Morty said to the door. He wondered what time it was in this universe. Three in the morning? Four?

            “Yeah,” the voice yawned disinterestedly. The door opened a crack, revealing a large, dark silhouette of a man. “This better be important.”

            “Yeah, well, you see, um, the thing is-“ Morty stammered.

            “I haven’t got all night, kid.”

            “S-sorry. It’s just…” He might as well just say it, he reasoned. “Can we park our spaceship here tonight?”

            There was a pause. “Your what?”

            “Oh, well, m-my grandpa Rick and I were going, well, somewhere, and he… er, he fell asleep. So, I put it on autopilot and-“

            “Whoa, back up. What?” The man opened the door fully, exposing himself to the cool night air. He was old.

            “Heh, yeah,” Morty said nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s a real spaceship, it’s right over there-“

            “No, no, who did you say you were _with?”_ the man asked. His face was deadly serious.

            “Um… my grandpa?”

            “Your grandpa _who?”_

            “My grandpa R-rick.”

            The old man was silent for a long time. He seemed to be thinking hard about something. The woods breathed quietly. Morty shivered.

            “Does your last name happen to be Sanchez?”

 

* * *

 

            Rick Sanchez woke up with a hangover. That wasn’t new.

            What _was_ new was the couch. And the wood cabin walls. And the ancient cable television across the room, and the – oh god, he was going to be sick. He threw off the blanket that covered him – when had that gotten there? – and stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom.

            When he had finished throwing up, he pillowed his head on his arms and curled up against the cool porcelain of the toilet. A large, warm hand hesitantly patted his shoulders. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.

            “Stan Pines,” he rasped.

            “Rick,” Stan’s voice acknowledged.

            “B-been a while,” Rick mumbled into the toilet.

            “You haven’t changed a bit.”

            Rick choked out a painful, raw laugh. He spat into the toilet once more for good measure, and leaned back against the wall. “I got old. Speak for yourself.”

            Stan wrung his hands for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Look, I’m sure we need to have a _talk_ , but uh, there’s coffee in the kitchen. If you want it.”

            “Thanks,” Rick muttered. Something tugged at the back of his mind. “Hey, uh… have you seen my ki- my grandson?”

            Stan’s hands curled into fists, then flexed. “Morty? He’s running around with my great, ah, my niece and nephew.”

            Rick looked up at the other man. For a long time, the two simply stared at each other, taking in new wrinkles and folds. Then Stan sighed, flushed the toilet, and offered Rick a hand up.

            “Come on,” he said. “Coffee, then talk.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “And THEN we escaped in a golf cart!” Mabel Pines exclaimed, making a wide motion with her hands. “I’m _telling_ you Morty, twins are the way to go.”

            Morty laughed as Mabel pulled her brother Dipper into an aggressive hug.

            “I do have a sister,” he said, “but she’s too old for this kind of stuff.”

            “Sisters are the worst,” Dipper agreed amiably as he skillfully evaded Mabel’s noogie.

            “Hey!” Mabel laughed. “Get back here.”

            Morty smiled and leaned his elbows on the gift shop counter. “So h-have you two lived here your whole lives?”

            “In the Mystery Shack? Ha!” Mabel scoffed.

            “Our parents sent us here for the summer,” Dipper explained.

            “Whoa,” Morty said. “I wish m-my parents had sent me somewhere cool for a whole summer.”

            “You mean you never went on vacation? That’s lame,” Mabel said.

            “Mabel!” Dipper frowned.

            “It’s all right,” Morty shrugged. “Besides, my grandpa takes me on some pretty cool adventures.”

            “You mean the weird old guy passed out on the couch?” Mabel asked.

            Morty scratched the back of his neck. “Um-“

            “Mabel!” Dipper exclaimed again, punching her lightly on the arm. “Sorry, she doesn’t have much tact.”

            She stuck her tongue out at her brother.

            “No, no, i-it’s fine,” Morty hastily reassured the twins. “In fact, he _has_ been acting pretty weird lately. I mean, w-weirder than normal.” He frowned.

            “Do you think he’s been possessed by _aliens?”_ Mabel asked with a grin.

            “I don’t think aliens possess people,” Morty said with a shake of his head.

            “Dude, you took that question way too seriously,” stated the shopkeeper from the corner of the room. Morty startled – he hadn’t realized anyone was there. “I’m Soos,” the boy – he was almost a man – announced, after a long, somewhat awkward pause.

            “Soos actually has a point.” Dipper raised an eyebrow. “You, uh, believe in aliens?”

            “W-well, uh,” Morty said, suddenly self-conscious. “Aliens? I mean – c-come on, right?” He tried to laugh off the question.

            Dipper grabbed him by the arm and looked him in the eye, expression suddenly fierce. His voice dropped a few notches. “Do you believe in aliens?”

            “Ow,” Morty mumbled, more out of shock than actual pain. “Geez, um, I guess so? Why?”

            “Are you here to spy on us?” Dipper accused. His grip on Morty’s arm tightened.

            “Hey!”

            “Dipper, cut it out,” Mabel said. “If they were here to hurt us, they’d have done it last night.”

            “She’s got a point, dude,” Soos interjected, munching on a chip – though Morty didn’t remember him having food a second ago. “Plus their spaceship is a wreck.”

            Dipper released Morty’s arm. “Yeah, I guess Mabel does have – wait, their _what??”_

            “Um…” Morty rubbed at his skin and took a step or two back.

            “You have a _spaceship?_ ” Mabel gushed, a huge grin breaking out across her face.

            “Heh, yeah, well – d-do you want to see? I-I’m sure Rick won’t mind, much.”

 

* * *

 

           

            “So what brings you to my neck of the woods?” Stan asked warily, watching Rick over the rim of his coffee mug. Rick ran his fingers over the ceramic of his own glass for a few seconds, grateful for the warmth. Should he tell him the truth?

            Better not.

            “Just reliving the good- the glory days, Lee.” He put on his best fake smile. “I miss my favorite groupie.”

            Stan’s face was stoic. Rick’s charm slid off him like water from an oiled duck. “Is that all I was to you? A groupie?”

            Rick frowned, realizing his error. He backtracked. “No, no, of course not. Stanley, I-“

            “No, you listen up.” Stan’s voice was deadly serious. His eyes shifted around the room, making sure there were no prying eyes or ears. “I don’t know why you’re here, Sanchez. If you want money, just take it. But I can’t let you stay here.”

            “What?” Rick’s brow furrowed into a sharp ‘V.’ He shook his head. “I don’t want your money.” He scoffed. “You’d never give it to me anyway.”

            “Then you’d better have a darn good reason for showing up passed out on my doorstep.”

            Rick took a breath. “L-look, it’s hard to explain, exactly-“

            “I’ve got all morning.”

            Rick fidgeted in his seat. “Two days. That’s all I need, just two days to fix up my ship, then I’ll – we’ll leave you alone, I swear-“

            “You left me already, Rick.”

            Rick shut his eyes. “Yeah. About that. I’m… sorry.”

            Stan waited a second or two for the other man to continue. When no response appeared to be forthcoming, he asked, “Is that it? A half-assed apology and you expect me to just let you crash here, no questions asked?” He crossed his arms across his chest.

            Rick sighed. “Look, I know you’re angry with me, and I can’t- I don’t blame you. But… please. I-I’m begging you. Just two days to sort things out.”

            Stan raised an eyebrow. “Was that a ‘please?’”

            Rick leaned back self-consciously in his chair. “Yeah. So what?”

            There was a long, pregnant pause.

            “What’s the real reason you’re here, Rick?”

            The grey-haired man sighed. The truth, then. Better get on with it.

            “Beth is dead,” he said in a flat voice.

            The shack was quiet in the way only a cabin in the woods can be. Pine needles rustled against a window upstairs. The sound of laughter could be heard very faintly from somewhere just beyond the driveway.

            “Little Beth?” Stan sucked in a breath.

            Rick looked at the ceiling. “Yeah. Little Beth.”

            “Geez, I’m… I’m sorry.” He shifted his arms, feeling a bit guilty about his earlier accusations.

            “I don’t know how to tell Morty,” Rick confessed into his coffee. “I-I ran because I couldn’t – it was too horrible.”

            Stan’s expression was unreadable. He adjusted his glasses. He was quiet for a long time.

            “Well, get- come on,” Rick hissed, annoyed. “Tell me I’m wrong. T-tell me I did a bad thing here.”

            Stan sighed, scratching his nose. “I dunno. It seems to me you just didn’t want the kid to feel the same thing you felt.”

            “That’s stupid,” the scientist said, shaking his head. “My feelings are irrelevant. It just didn’t- I didn’t want- look, it wasn’t something a kid should see, okay?” Rick sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “God. Screw this.” He put down his coffee and reached for his hip flask.

            “Hey!” Stan jumped up, lumbering toward Rick and snatching the flask from his fingers. “Drinking won’t help.”

            Rick sniffed again. A drop of salt water snuck down his cheek. “You think I care? Drinking _numbs_ me.”

            Stan observed him for a long moment. He was thinner than Stan remembered. “You- you gotta stop that,” the con artist said after a moment, “because you’re breaking my heart, Rick.”


	2. Chapter 2

            The kitchen was quiet for a long, uncomfortable minute.

            “Give me my flask,” Rick said in a low voice, without even a hint of his usual stutter.

            “No,” Stan replied in a flat voice.

            “Give. Me. My. Flask.”

            “ _No,_ Rick. It’s not even noon.”

            Rick wiped the moisture from his cheeks and stood. He walked threateningly toward Stan, hands curling into fists.

            “Really?” Stanley scoffed. “Do you _really_ want to go there?” Nevertheless, he stood to meet him, flexing his fingers.

            “Not if you give my flask back to me.”

            “Then I guess you’re going to have to fight me. Because I won’t let- oof!” Stan stumbled back a step, Rick’s punch to the chest catching him off guard. “Now, that wasn’t very fair.”

            “Life isn’t fair,” Rick stated, throwing another quick jab at his chin. Stan ducked it skillfully. The punches weren’t hard enough to do much damage, but Rick was the sort of person who won fistfights through sheer force of will.

            Stan tucked the flask deep into his pocket. “Can we at least do this outside?” he huffed, acutely aware of the number of breakable objects around them. In response, Rick grabbed his mug of coffee, flinging the now-lukewarm liquid into the other man’s face.

“Still not fair,” Stan sputtered. “Oh, no you don’t!”

            Rick was reaching for Stan’s pocket. Stan smacked his hand away, but otherwise kept his own hands locked in a defensive stance. He deflected the scientists’ blows easily.

            Rick threw the coffee mug at him. Stan ducked that too, and the heavy glass went flying through the closed window behind him, sending shards of glass flying into the front yard.

            “You’re paying for that,” the shopkeeper said without missing a beat.

            “All _right!”_ Soos’s voice yelled from outside. “Old dudes fighting!”

 

* * *

 

            “Aw geez, _Rick!”_ Morty yelled, tripping as he ran back across the gravel driveway toward the shack. “Rick, s-s-stop!” The broken glass of the window crunched under his shoes as he approached the kitchen.

            Rick continued assaulting Stan. “No way, M-Morty. He’s a _thief!”_ He punctuated the word with a swift kick.

            Stan sidestepped the attack and rolled his eyes. He deflected a few more punches. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I’d beat this old man in a fight any day.”

            Rick laughed breathlessly. “Yeah, right. He hasn’t even… tried to punch me. He’s afraid that… I’d _really_ hurt him.”

            “Terrified,” Stan agreed amiably. He expertly blocked a punch to his face with the back of his arm.

            Morty’s gaze shifted between the two of them, confusion scrawled all over his face. “W-w-why is he a thief, Rick?”

            “He’s a…” Rick gulped in a breath before throwing his weight into another kick. “He’s a con artist, Morty. And he… stole my flask.”

            Stan evaded the kick easily, and Rick stumbled across the room, knocking his hip against the edge of the sink. “Fuck,” he hissed, before limping angrily back across the kitchen. He chased the kick with a fierce left uppercut.

            Stan caught his wrist in a steel grip just millimeters from his chin. “That’s more than enough fighting, don’t you think?” he growled.

            Rick’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His shoulders slumped downward. “Lee,” he whispered. Without warning, his body convulsed in a vicious sob.

            “Yep,” Stan muttered, pulling Rick into a hug. “Yep. I’ve gotcha.” He smoothed his hands up the other man’s back and neck, fingers burrowing into surprisingly soft grey hair.

            “Rick?!” Morty shouted, alarmed. “Oh man oh man oh man.” He oscillated on the driveway for a moment before running inside through the front door. In a few seconds he had found his way into the kitchen, slamming the door open against the wall with a loud bang.

            Morty’s grandfather slouched over, burying his face between Stan’s neck and shoulder. His arms snaked around the other man.

“Rick!” the boy yelled, jogging over and touching his back. “I-is he okay? What happened?” he asked Stan frantically.

            “N-nothing,” Rick groaned with a loud sniff. He straightened his back and made a show of wiping his right eye. “Except…” With his left eye, he winked subtly at Morty. “I got my flask back! Run for your life!”

            “Huh?” Morty suddenly found a heavy piece of cold metal thrust into his hands. “Rick,” he complained. “W-what’s going on?”

            “C’mon, Mort,” Rick cajoled from the other end of the room. “How’s about a game of keep-away?”

            Stan sighed, making no move to take the flask from Morty. “How do _you_ put up with him?” he asked the kid. Shaking his head, he walked into the hallway, returning a few moments later with a broom and dustpan. “Make sure no one comes in here barefoot for a few minutes, would you?” He began to sweep up the remains of the broken window.

            “What even… ah, geez,” Morty sighed, putting the flask down firmly on the counter. “Can I, y’know, help clean up or something?”

            Stan ruffled his hair affectionately. “It’s not your mess, kiddo.”

            When Morty turned around to give the flask back to his grandpa, it had vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice short one for the holiday. The first fight scene I've ever written, and it wasn't even supposed to be a fight scene. 
> 
> #writergoals #amirite


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's note: warning for suicidal themes]

            "R-rick?" Morty asked, tapping tentatively at the glass of the ramshackle spaceship. He glanced back toward the Mystery Shack, where Dipper and Mabel were watching from the front door with some concern. He waved at them, hoping that Rick's sudden outburst hadn't frightened them too badly.

            There were scuffs in the gravel driveway where their feet had scrambled for traction.

            The door of the ship opened a half inch. "Fuck off," a voice rasped quietly, before the door shut once more. A few strands of blue-grey hair could be seen fluttering through the windshield, though the pilot's seat was empty.

            "Rick, you're acting really str- really weird."

            There was no response.

            "Um... are you okay?"

            A breeze rustled the pine needles above Morty. In his periphery, he saw Stan emerge from the shack, place a hand on each of the twins' shoulders, and shepherd them inside. Soos was nowhere to be seen. It was unbearably quiet.

            "Can I come in?"

            Rick remained silent, but after a few moments Morty heard the telltale click of the door handle. He gripped the cool edge of the metal panel and opened it.

            His grandfather sat on the floor, knees pulled up toward his chest. He patted the surface next to him, sliding over to the other side of the cramped ship. Morty's eyebrows raised, but he squeezed himself into the tight space under the steering while and closed the door behind him.

            "There's something I gotta tell you," Rick muttered, not meeting his grandson's gaze. "You're not gonna like it."

            "Okay?"

            "Look... Morty..." Rick pulled out his flask. He took a long draught from it, wiped his lips, and took a breath. Morty frowned. "Um. I don't really know how to say this. But Beth... uh, your mom. She. Um." He swallowed.

            "What happened?" Morty's voice rose in pitch. "Rick!"

            Rick covered his eyes with his hand. "She's dead, kiddo. I'm sorry."

            "W-what?" Morty felt a vacuum open inside his chest.

            Rick opened his eyes, gazing at the boy. "I know she wasn't your real mother. But she thought she was. And-"

            "Bullshit."

            "I mean, I know we buried her _real_ Morty, but you can't deny that-"

            "Bullshit! She isn't dead."

            "Mort-"

            "I saw her. Right before we left. She was fine. She was having a glass of wine."

            "Mort."

            "I don't believe you."

            Rick looked hurt. "It's the truth."

            Morty made a strangled sound. "No!" He bit down on his knuckle. "Prove it," he mumbled. "If it's the truth then prove it."

            "I... can't," Rick said. He took another sip from his flask. It burned against his too-tight throat, and he coughed.

            "There has to be proof!"

            "Sometimes the truth hurts more than the alternative."

            Morty whined, curling himself even tighter into the space between the seat and the wheel. Rick reached out toward him with a shaky hand, but the boy swatted it away.

            "No! You know what? I-if you won't prove to me that she's dead, then I'll prove to you that she's a-a-alive!"

            "Morty..."

            The kid was faster than Rick had anticipated. Before he knew what was happening, Morty leaned forward and snatched the portal gun from his exposed pocket.

            "Morty!" Rick roared in warning. He scrambled forward, but Morty was gone in an instant, swallowed up by a spiral of green that winked itself out of existence before the old man could follow.

            "No!" Rick punched the door of the ship. The clang of skin on metal reverberated against the otherwise still air of the forest.

            When he emerged from the ship a couple of hours later, his knuckles were still wet with blood.

 

* * *

 

            "Are you gonna mope out here all night?" a high-pitched voice asked from somewhere to his left. He cursed, nearly dropping his flask. Stan’s great-niece walked up, gravel crunching under her feet.

            Rick didn't turn around. A warm breeze drifted out of the pit, tousling his hair. He stared into the sinfully black cavern, trying to make out the bottom. If he had looked up, he would have seen a rich purple sky above him.

            "Maybe. You're gonna give an old man a heart attack, sneaking up like that. It's Mabel, right?"

            “Yep,” she replied smugly. “Mabel Pines, best sneak in Gravity Falls.”

            “Shouldn’t you be sleeping or something?”

            “Nah. Did you and Grunkle Stan used to be boyfriends?”

            Rick choked on his liquor.

            “’Cause I don’t wanna pry,” Mabel continued, “but Stan’s been acting weird today, all sweaty and flustered, and he usually only gets like that when there’s a lady he likes close by – not that I’m saying you’re a lady – but I think that maybe-“

            “Okay, okay, my god,” Rick stammered, cutting her off. “You have no filter, do you?”

            “I’m just curious.” She kicked a rock. It tumbled away into the dark hole, hitting the side a couple of times before disappearing forever. Rick couldn't hear it hit the bottom, but then again, his ears were as old as the rest of him.

            "It isn't bottomless," she added. "Not really."

            "They usually aren't," Rick grumbled, eyeing the wooden picket sign - 'bottomless pit' - with distaste.

            "Are you going to jump?" she asked curiously. She didn't seem concerned.

            "Not with you watching," he replied, a little annoyed.

            "You wouldn't die. Well... not from falling. Falling never killed anyone." She took a step toward the hole, as if to prove her point.

            "No, but grievous bodily harm due to hitting the ground from a long way up might. Hypothetically." He took another swig.

            Mabel giggled. "Hypothetically," she agreed. "Did Morty run away?"

            Rick sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "How did you kn- figure it out?"

            "You told him about his mom, right?"

            The scientist dug his nails into the flesh of his palm. "Did Stan tell you?"

            "He said she died, but he didn't say anything else. He seemed kind of angry."

            Rick scowled, but nodded. "Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, Morty ran away."

            "We can call the police if you want."

            Rick shook his head. "Interdimensional interdiction isn't a road you want to go down. Not even for family."

            "So you lost your daughter and your grandson, and now you want to jump into a bottomless pit."

            "Maybe. Haven't decided."

            "It's a good escape," Mabel said, taking another step toward the edge of the pit. "Jumping, I mean."

            "That's the plan," Rick said, eyeing her carefully. She was getting uncomfortably close to falling in. "Now why don't you go back inside? Don't you have like, TV to watch? Or something?"

            "Nah. This is much more interesting." She took another step closer. "It's safe. Trust me."

            "Mabel!" Rick stood, swaying. "Get ba- get away from that ledge."

            "Trust me," she repeated with a wink. She turned her back to the pit and leaned, arms extended outward. She hung in midair for an interminably long second before disappearing into the gaping mouth of the pit.

            _"Mabel!"_ Rick shrieked. He watched in horror as she fell, back-first, into the cavern. Without stopping to think about it, he dove in after her.

            A rush of air whipped past, causing his lab coat to flap behind him as he flew into the black hole. He instinctively streamlined his body, flattening himself to gain speed. Within seconds, he had grabbed the hem of Mabel's knit sweater. He yanked her close to his chest with one arm, reaching for his portal gun with his other hand.

            The gun was gone.

            Of course the gun was gone.

            Morty had stolen the gun.

            They were going to die.

            Bile rose to the back of Rick's throat. "Oh shit," he whispered. "Shit shit shit shit-"

            Mabel was laughing at him. "Rick," she shouted. The wind ripped her words from the air almost as they were spoken. "Rick, we're fine. Look."

            They tumbled through space, the blackness so absolute that Rick couldn't gauge how far away the walls were. They continued to fall.

            And they fell.

            And they fell.

            Rick squeezed Mabel a little harder than was strictly necessary, his fingers digging into her side. His legs flailed, sending the two of them into a sloppy helix.

            "F-f-fuck," he squeaked, shivering uncontrollably. "Y-you can't be s-serious."

            "Of course I'm serious, silly!" Mabel squirmed as she tried to find a more comfortable position against the man's bony chest.

            "It's an actual b-bottomless p-p-p-uh, purgatory."

            Mabel settled with her head tucked against his collarbone. "I prefer 'refuge' myself. And I told you, it isn't bottomless."

            Rick swallowed painfully. "What, um." He licked his lips, trying to control his stutter. "What do you mean?"

            "It'll spit us back out in, oh, twenty minutes or so."

            "I... don't understand."

            "I don't either! But it's a nice break. Sometimes." She wrapped her arms around Rick's skinny frame, somewhat dismayed when her wrists met somewhere in the middle of his back. He made no move to reciprocate the gesture, but did not loosen his grip on her sweater.

            "So you're saying..."

            "You wouldn't have died."

            The only sound was that of the warm wind rushing past. Rick didn't say anything for a long time.

            "Fuck," he whimpered after about a minute. His voice cracked. _"Fuck."_

            "Anyway," Mabel said calmly, "I thought you could use a hug."

            One of Ricks' hands flew to his hair, ripping at the pewter strands. He let go of Mabel. He placed his other hand in his mouth, bit down hard, and screamed.

            Mabel grimaced, tightening her hold on the old man. Their spiraling gradually slowed until they were falling in a straight line, though it was beginning to feel considerably less like falling at this point.

            "I'm sorry," she offered kindly.

            Rick sobbed loudly, unable to do much else. His hands froze into useless, shaking claws, ravaging his face and scalp without even trying. Tears floated upward from his cheeks.

            Mabel squeezed him tighter.

 

* * *

 

 

            Somehow, time passed.

            Rick felt himself falling in the wrong direction. His backside hit something hard. Mabel detached herself from his chest rather abruptly.

            "Damn it, Sanchez," Stanley's voice whispered from behind him before he felt himself lifted into the air once more, albeit much more gently. "Go to bed, Mabel," the voice vibrated against Rick's side, intending to be heard now. "And quit playing in that stupid pit!"

            "Yes, Grunkle Stan," Mabel's soft voice responded. A small hand patted Rick's hair once. Then it was gone.

            Rick wept quietly. His eyes hurt.

           

            The next morning, he woke in a bed.


	4. Chapter 4

            "M-mom?" Morty asked tentatively, staring at the lump of charred wood that might have once been a house. "Dad? S-summer?"

            He picked his way across the rubble to what used to be the front door. It should have been quiet, but it wasn't. Cars passed carefully along the potholed street. Birds sang. The wind continued to blow. In fact, the rest of the neighborhood seemed blissfully unaware of the crater which had once housed the Smith family.

            "Mom?" Morty called out again, a touch of desperation lacing his voice. Rick _couldn't_ have been right. Beth _couldn't_ be dead.

            Then again, Rick was always right. It was one of the problems of being a genius. Morty set his jaw and shook his head, willing his blurry vision to clear. No, he would prove his grandfather wrong. He _had_ to. He touched the frame of the blackened door, which puffed into a cloud of ash under his fingers.

            Without another word, Mortimer Smith determinedly set the dial of Rick's portal gun as far as it would go.

 

* * *

 

 

            Rick blinked, eyelids tender and crusted with remnants of sleep. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair.

            "Stanley?" he croaked. His voice was crusty, too.

            No response. Rick groaned, sat up, and tossed the blanket aside. He immediately missed its warmth. With a grimace, he steeled himself and stood, exiting the bedroom and making his way slowly toward the kitchen. His body felt hungover, though he hadn't consumed as much alcohol as usual yesterday. This was due to his crying spell last night, he knew. He hated himself for it.

            "Stanley?" he asked again at the door, rubbing at his eyelid.

            "Rickster," Stan greeted him brightly, bedecked in a bright blue apron and matching oven mitt. "Up for some Stancakes?"

            Rick stared at him blankly. "No."

            "Coffee?"

            "No."

            "Orange juice?"

            " _No,_ Stanley." Rick blinked a few times against the too-bright sun streaming through the broken window.

            Stan sighed, setting his hot pan back down on the stove. He approached the other man. "I'm sure he'll come back," he offered.

            Rick laughed bitterly. "Oh, y-you think?"            

            "Yeah. Where else can he possibly go?"

            "I hid his own family's deaths from him," Rick muttered, throat feeling tight again. "There's no w-way he's coming back."

            Stan shed his oven mitt, tossing it onto the countertop. "Logically, though," he countered, "there's nowhere else for him to go. Right?"

            Rick said nothing.

            "Look," Stan said. "The kid loves you. He loves you a lot. He's just, y'know, sad. Confused."

            "He was angry."

            "He's grieving. Grief happens in a lot of ways." Stan looked at him meaningfully.

            "Like jumping into a bottomless pit?" Rick groaned.

            Stan flexed his fingers and silently counted to ten. "Yeah," he agreed. "Although some of us might prefer... _other_ ways."

            "Look," Rick said. "It's been two days. I asked for two days. I'll be gone this evening, one way or another."

            "That's fine," Stan said. His shoulders deflated for a moment, and he reached forward to clasp Rick's hand. His large fingers engulfed the scientists'. "Just remember... I can always fix a broken window. But please... don't make me clean your brains off my wall, Rick. I can't do that."

            "Lee," Rick groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

            "Please, Rick," Stan implored. "No brains?"

            "No brains," Rick reluctantly agreed. He squeezed Stan's fingers lightly, then headed over to the kitchen table. "Stancakes?" he asked.

            Stan cleared his throat. There was a long moment before he could face his companion again. "Yeah. Uh. Stancakes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another nice short one for you all (for Valentine's Day?). I've been trying to explore the subject of "being suicidal" more and more, and there are so many facets to it. I hope I have not misrepresented the subject in any way, and I hope you will forgive me for any mistakes I have committed. 
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> B


	5. Chapter 5

            Morty came back at sunset.

            He didn't say a word. He walked right past Rick without looking at him. Rick wasn't angry. He deserved it. He quit tinkering with the ship's engine and followed Morty off the driveway and back into the Shack, covered in engine fluid and holding a wrench in one hand, his fingers clenching and unclenching against the cool unforgiving metal.

            Morty came to a stop in the middle of the hallway, swaying unsteadily. His eyes were dull.

            "s' not y-your fault," he mumbled without preamble. "I-i-i-i's _in_ directly your fault. 'S what they said."

            Rick's eyes narrowed.

            "Morty, what are you... have you been drinking?"

            "Heh," he spat, not quite laughing. "You do it. Evvveryone does it."

            "Morty," Rick warned.

            "Here's y-your stupid gun," the teenager said, hefting the portal gun at his grandfather, who caught it with a sigh. It clanked heavily against the wrench.

            "You went to the Citadel?" Rick confirmed his hypothesis by checking the dial. "Why?"

            "Doesn't m-matter. Got my answer."

            "Morty... you thought I would lie to you? A-about this?" Rick looked wounded. His fingers tightened around the wrench. His grandson leaned precariously against the wall.

            "I-i-indirectly your fault," Morty continued on his initial train of thought, as if it had never derailed in the first place. "You didn't mean to let them die. B-but your actions, your... your _existence_... killed them."

            Rick took an involuntary step back. That one hurt.

            " _Not_ to mention," Morty went on after a brief pause, "I find you here, w-working on your stupid ship. Gonna leave me. Gonna leave again, now I'm gone, you're free to go wherever you want, so... you were gonna leave m-me, Rick?"

            "I was gonna come _find_ you, moron."

            "Heh... of course you were."

            Rick's shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch.

            "I thought you were gone for good, kiddo," he whispered.

            "Well maybe I should be."

            A light flicked on at the end of the hall.

            "What's going on? Rickster?" Stanley asked, shuffling into the narrow passage clothed in a bathrobe and a pair of threadbare slippers. "Morty? You came back?"

            Morty took a step back, lost his footing, and stumbled backward. Rick caught him easily, with the practice of time guiding his hand. The teenager fought the old man's grip for a half second before succumbing to the familiar feeling.

            "Rick?" Stanley asked again. "What's wrong with him?"

            "Alcohol," Rick answered. He pocketed the portal gun and wrench and placed both of his hands atop Morty's shoulders.

            "You let him drink?"

            "He drank on his own."

            "Am still here, you know," Morty mumbled. He had closed his eyes. "Can still hear you."

            "Yep," Rick said. "Bedtime for you, kid."

            "No."

            "Yes."

            "I second the motion," Stanley said. "His bed is still set up in the guest room. Want help?" he asked Rick.

            Rick shook his head mutely. He pushed Morty forward easily, guiding him slowly down the hall to the aforementioned room. Stanley followed, wordlessly crossing the room and pushing the quilt back. Rick coaxed his grandson into the bed.

            "Jus' leave me alone," Morty lamented. "Go away, R-Rick."

            Rick didn't respond. He pulled the quilt up over Mortys' shoulders, tucking him in. Then he walked out of the small room. Morty was already snoring.

            Stanley shut the door softly behind them.

            "Guess they have to start sometime, huh?" He put a well-meaning hand on Rick's shoulder. "Drinking, I mean."

            "No," Rick shut him down. "They don't."

            "You can't protect him forever, Rick. He's got to have his own experiences."

            "Yeah b-but your first drink should be at like, high school prom. Or a birthday party, or when you lose your virginity or something. Not when your parents die." He cupped his hands over his eyelids.

            Stan sighed sympathetically.

            "At least he came back," he offered. "On his own, too."

            "Only because he had nowhere else to go."

            "In that case, aren't you glad you stayed?"

            Rick had no good response to that.

            A small pair of feet padded into the hallway.

            "Grunkle Stan?" Mabel asked, her too-long sleeves trailing from her wrists.

            "Hey Mabes. Why don't you round up your brother for dinner? I was thinking maybe we could order a pizza?"

            "Actually, I'm not that hungry," she said. "I heard Morty's voice. Did he come back?"

            Rick and Stan exchanged wearied glances. "Yeah, sweetheart. He came back," Stan said.

            "That's good!" Mabel grinned. When the adults didn't grin back, her smile faded just a bit. "Isn't it?"

            Rick turned his face away. After a moment's hesitation, Stan looped his arm around the other man's shoulders.

            It belonged there, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for funerals.

            "Rick," Stan pleaded. The dust had settled, and the two of them shuffled toward the ramshackle spaceship at the edge of the driveway. The Mystery Shack loomed gloomily in the autumn starlight.

            "Fuck off," Rick mumbled into the cold metal mouth of his flask.

            "Aren't you glad to have him back?"

            Rick sighed wearily. "Do you want me to say yes, Stanley? That everything is hunky-dory a-a-and we can all live together, happily ever after?"

            "No."

            Rick stole a look at him. The simple, honest answer caught him off guard. Stanley crossed his arms, looking meaningfully up at the taller man.

            "Then what do you want?"

            "I don't know," Stan said very quietly and after much thought. "You. Probably."

            Rick shot him a baleful glare. "That's low. Coming on to me, a-after all this?"

            "Not like that," Stan replied with a shake of the head. "Not right now. I just mean generally."

            The scientist appraised him thoughtfully. "You want to have a, a relationship again?"

            "Maybe. I don't know."

            "Ah." He looked at the ground. The night air was cool and Rick's lab coat butterflied in the light breeze. He shivered.

            He whispered, "Yeah. Me too. Maybe."

            "I'm still mad at you."

            "I know."

            Stan reached up and touched Rick's collarbone. "Yo siempre te ame, Sanchez." He smirked. "Even when you disappeared."

            Rick looked straight into his soul. He didn't say a word - he didn't have to. He simply nodded. Stanley caught his drift.

            "Ah, Rick," Stan breathed.

            "Hm."

            "You're the worst person I know."

            "Right back at you, Pines."

          

* * *

 

 

            "Aw, Dipper, look," Mabel whispered, pointing out of their shared attic window.

            "What is it?"

            "Just _look,_ you dingus."

            Dipper looked.

            Outside, at the edge of the long gravel driveway, Rick and Stanley shared a long but chaste kiss. After a few seconds, they pulled apart, allowing their foreheads to meet. The position was awkward; Rick's gangly limbs and Stan's stocky build were not a perfect match. But the sentiment was there, and the two old men held each other for a long time.

            The twins shared a smile.

            "You owe me a dollar," Mabel whispered, though it was practically impossible to be heard from their vantage point.

            Dipper chuckled. "Yeah," he agreed. "You were right. Grunkle Stan is definitely in love."

 

* * *

 

            A full week passed. 

            It was grossly unfair, Rick thought to himself for the fourth time that morning, that he should manage to outlive as many people as he had.

            Much to Rick's dismay, Stanley had suggested a funeral for Beth, and being the sentimental teenager that he was, Morty had agreed to it. Rick wanted very badly to bail on the whole affair, but his grandson wouldn't hear of it.

 _Closure,_ Stanley's voice repeated in the back of his mind. Whatever that meant. But hey, it wasn't Rick's money being spent on some death ritual at a church he had never attended, nor ever would attend.

            Morty dressed nicely for the funeral, of course, putting on a brave face and a suit that fit him eight months ago (Rick had bought it cheaply off another Morty in another dimension). The hem of his pants traveled two inches too far up his ankles, and the shoulders of the jacket bunched themselves into lumpy ridges no matter how many times Rick tried to smooth them down.

            “You – eurgh – ready, kid?” he asked, sneaking another sip from his hip flask.

            Morty frowned but nodded. He wasn’t quite as forgiving of Rick’s drinking habits these days. The dark circles rimming the boy’s eyes shoved daggers into Rick’s chest, pinning his soul somewhere just behind his heart. He capped the flask.

            “A-all right. Come on.” He clasped a frail, pale hand on his grandson’s shoulder.

            Morty sniffed and rubbed at his nose with the back of a hand. Rick held open the heavy chapel door for him, and watched with the strangest mixture of pride and pain as the kid walked down the aisle, squaring his shoulders against pitying stares. The old man followed slowly. His customary lab coat had been traded for a rather more solemn suit jacket, and it rubbed claustrophobically at his skin. No one stared at him.

            He swallowed a smirk. Was he jealous of the attention Morty was drawing? Not particularly. Losing a parent left no blame. Losing a child, on the other hand, made you irresponsible. Careless. A bad father.

            He told himself that this was Gravity Falls, and that no one knew him here. He told himself that no one was judging him.

            The pair reached the front of the chapel. A heavy pearlescent casket dominated the altar, as if it had sat there its entire life. The lid was closed, giving the illusion that it was not empty. Rick imagined his daughter's body neatly tucked away inside, and he looked away.

            An empty coffin in an empty church in an empty town in an empty dimension in an-

            “C-come- let’s go,” Rick whispered to Morty. The boy nodded without really meaning to, and let himself be steered into a pew. They sat side by side, shoulders brushing. Stanley and the twins sat respectfully in the pew opposite.

            “I’d like to thank you all for coming,” began the pastor. “Elizabeth Smith, nee Sanchez, was…”

            Rick settled in for a long morning, crossing his arms over his chest. Who was this stranger, deciding in a few short words how Beth had lived her life? He knew enough about funerals to know not to listen to whatever pathetic eulogy was coming. It would only hurt in the long run.

            He stared up at the stained glass. He reminded himself to never let Stanley plan anything again.

            Morty sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Rick glanced over at his blotchy red face, the boy trying to hold it together for a group of people he barely knew in a chapel he had never visited.

            Morty's grandfather realized that he and his grandson had not touched, had not hugged or shared a conversation, for the entire past week.

            Suddenly, it was Rick who was crying.

            Morty, bless his heart, didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t look at Rick with scorn, or disgust, or even pity. He took his grandfather’s hand.

            Rick realized that he wasn’t crying for Beth. Even though she carried his blood, she was still a stranger. Rick was crying, he knew, because Morty would face his remaining teenage years – the rest of his life – without a mother. He wondered when Morty had become more of a child to him than his own daughter.

            “R-Rick?” Morty whispered to him.

            “What?” Rick hissed, cognizant of the crowd around him. He refused to wipe his tears away. Better to pretend he wasn’t crying, he thought to himself. Moisture ran in uncomfortable ticklish rivulets down either side of his nose.

            The hired pastor droned on. Rick stared at the casket (which he _knew_ was empty), and he stared at the flowers, and he stared at Stanley. The Pines family listened respectfully to the pastors' words. Something was said about Jerry, and something was said about Summer. Rick, who continued to tell himself he wasn't listening, grimaced whenever one of their names was mentioned.

            Beth's name was said. Rick suddenly couldn't take another word. He stood quickly, ducking his head and beating a hasty retreat. He didn’t care who saw. He just needed to be out of that chapel, and he needed to be out _now._

            He made it as far as the hallway, pushing through the heavy doors.

            He leaned back against the wall, legs only supporting his weight for a moment before he sank to the floor and tucked his knees into his chest. A panel of stained glass caught the evening light, reflecting red across his face. He sucked in a spasming breath.

            “Rick?” Morty’s voice called out hesitantly.

             The kid had _followed_ him? Christ, Rick thought, covering his eyes with a hand.

             “God damn, just give me a m-minute,” he snapped, voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “Go back inside. You don’t want to miss your own mother’s funeral.”

            “Sh-she’s your daughter too,” Morty said after a minute, without a trace of anger. "And it's not a real funeral anyway."

            Morty sat on the ground next to him and awkwardly snuffled up against his chest.

            “God… Morty…” Rick whispered.

            “Mhm,” Morty agreed, pillowing his head on his grandfather’s bony shoulder. Rick’s polyester shirt smelled faintly of cigarettes, but it was clean.

            “I’m… s-so sorry, Mort.”

            "I-I know Rick."

            "God." He sniffed loudly. "Your grandpa's pretty pathetic, huh."

            "No. You aren't."

            "You were right, though."

            "About what?" Morty asked into Rick's chest. His breath was warm.

            "It was. Indirectly my fault. Their deaths, I mean."

            Morty tensed. "I... know."

            "No?"

            "No, I... I know."

            "You know."

            "Yeah. I know."

            "What do you know?"

            "I know about the explosion. I know how they died."

            Rick froze, unable to do anything but breathe for a long moment. "Who told you?" he asked, features ashen.

            "The Council," Morty said, seeming surprised. "They said the garage accident is pretty common... it happens in most dimensions."

            "It does?" Rick squeaked. He felt nauseous.

            "You didn't know?"

            "I guess I just... I-I thought I could prevent it, Mort. I thought I could stop it."

            Morty started to say something, but was interrupted by the soft whisper of the heavy chapel door against the carpeted floor. "Rickster? Everything all right?"

            Stanley's reassuring bulk pressed warmly against Rick's side. Joints creaked and popped as the two old men settled next to each other. Morty buried his face in Rick's cigarette-smoke shirt.

            "You're missing the funeral, Morty," Stan said gently.

            "But Rick-"

            "I'll take care of Rick. You need closure, kid."

            Morty pulled back and looked up at his grandfather. Rick swallowed. "Go on," he said. "It's for you anyway."

            Morty sniffed, stood, and backed away into the tiny chapel hall. He pulled the door open and let the pastor's practiced comforting speech lull him back to normality.

            "Sanchez," Stan's voice muttered darkly.

            Rick said, "I know."

            "You're hurting him."

            "I fucking _know,_ Stanley."

            Stan opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. He hummed a soft note against Rick's hair.

            "What do you propose I do about it?" Rick asked bitterly.

            "I don't know, Rickster."

            "I'm _trying_ to be truthful with him."

            "I admire that. But this isn't the time or the place."

            "Then when?"

            Stan scooped Rick into his arms. "You'll know."

            Rick scrambled out of Stan's grip. He felt even more claustrophobic than he had before. "I need a cigarette." He pulled a pack from his jacket pocket and stood on shaky legs. By the time Stan got up to follow, Rick was already halfway out the door.

            "What's wrong?" Stan asked. Cars drove by at a respectful twenty miles an hour. The early afternoon sunlight reflected from the pavement, causing him to blink.

            "You telling m-me how to parent, for starters," Rick growled. He flicked his lighter a couple of times, fingers unsteady.

            "You aren't his parent."

            "The fuck, Stanley?"

            "You're not."

            "Tell his dead mother to get her ass resurrected, then we'll talk."

            Stan crossed his arms, regarding Rick sadly. "You're his grandfather. And his friend. But he's almost grown up. And..."

            "And his mother is dead. I am _aware_." Rick's hands had begun to shake. The cigarette dropped ash, which floated lazily in the breeze.

            "Yeah," Stanley agreed with a frown.

            "So why are we having this conversation?" Rick asked exasperatedly.

            "He won't replace her."

            "I... what?"

            "Morty. He won't replace Beth. For you."

            Rick's face twisted into something ugly. "Morty has always been a kid to me. This doesn't change that."

            "Just be careful," Stan offered. "You're volatile."

            "Oh, big word coming from the self-proclaimed psy-psychoanalyst here."

            Stan's eyes narrowed angrily but he did not dignify the prod with a response. He repeated, "Just be careful." Then he walked back inside.

            Rick smoked his cigarette.


	7. Chapter 7

            A week passed.

            Morty didn't try to run away again, but he didn't speak to Rick. The twins, who knew what had happened but didn't necessarily understand it, tried to be as sympathetic as they could. Mabel knitted a yellow sweater with a black Charlie-Brown stripe for Morty. He thanked her for it.

            A second week passed. The manner of Beth's death was not brought up again. The weather began to grow cool, and reddened oak leaves started to fall all along the driveway. The spaceship stayed where it was, collecting rust.

            "Do you want hot chocolate?" Rick asked Morty one evening. The silence between them was growing tense, and he felt like he needed something, anything, to break it.

            Morty shrugged. "I guess."

            He padded along behind Rick, barefoot, into the living room. Three steaming mugs of cocoa sat on the coffee table, and Stan sat on the sofa.

            "Hey, kiddo," Stan greeted in friendly tones.

            "Hey, Stan."

            "Good to have you join us."

            Morty looked warily between the twins' great-uncle and his own grandfather, whose eyes were cast toward the ground, giving away nothing. "Is this some kind o-of intervention? Or something?"

            Stan chuckled good-naturedly. "Nah. Just wanted to talk to you for a bit, see how you were doing."

            "I'm fine," Morty responded curtly.

            "Sit with us for a bit? Drink some hot chocolate, maybe play some cards?"

            "Whatever," Morty mumbled, sitting heavily on the sofa.

            Rick picked up his mug, lacing it with liquid from his flask when he thought no one was watching. He took a long draught and sat next to his grandson. Morty tensed. Rick noticed.

            "So what'll it be?" Stan asked, ignoring the unspoken drama playing out before him. He picked up a deck of cards, giving it a good overhand shuffle. "Five card stud? Blackjack?"

            "Do we have to?" the teen whined. "I-I-I just kind of want to, y'know, go to bed."

            "That's the depression talking," Rick stated bluntly. "Don't fight the exhaustion, Morty. It's part of who you are now."

            " _Rick."_ Stanley chastised him. His shuffling wavered for a moment before resuming its usual speed.

            "What?" Rick complained.

            "I'm not depressed," Morty mumbled.

            "Five card stud, ante up to play," Stan interjected with force.

            "We can't _ante up_ ," Rick said, curling his fingers into air quotation marks, "without chips."

            "I know that," Stan said. "Why don't you go get them from the hall closet, Rick _?"_

            "Whatever," Rick groaned.

            He stood and walked to the hallway, locating the dusty box of old poker chips after a few seconds of searching. Stan's voice drifted through the old walls. Curious, Rick took his time getting back to the living room.

            "-you a whole lot, kiddo," Stan was saying.

            "I know," Rick heard Morty sigh. "It's just..."

            "Just what?"

            "I-i-it's just that Mom's death _was_ his fault."

            Rick froze outside the doorway. His fingers clenched against worn cardboard.

            "Morty-" Stan started.

            "N-no, I don't mean that he... that he _meant_ to kill her or anything like that, just that... he didn't stop it."

            "Do you think he didn't try?"

            Rick inhaled. He put on a brave face. He knocked on the door frame.

            "Five card stud," he announced with a forced smile, dropping the box of chips onto the coffee table with a satisfying thud. "Ante up."

           

* * *

 

            "You heard all of that, didn't you?"

            Stan carefully traced Rick's hairline. The last rays of sunlight shone red against his blue-grey mane. Morty had excused himself after a few short hands and the two of them were alone, trading glances on the porch and trying hard to look at each other without making eye contact.

            "It wasn't new information."

            Stan watched the sunset reflect from Rick's dark eyes.

            "Sometimes people die, Sanchez. You did what you could."

            "Did I?"

            "Of course you did. I know you."

            Rick's arms hung heavily at his sides. "What's the point of being th-the smartest person in the universe if I'm not smart enough to keep Morty from getting hurt?"

            Stan took his hand.

            "I don't know, Rick."

            "I don't know either."

 

* * *

 

            "Rick."

            A thin line of light spilled onto the wooden deck, spreading into a rectangle as Morty pushed open the front door. Stars flickered like candlelight across the sky. Rick pulled his attention away from them, turning back toward the Mystery Shack and his grandson.

            "What's up, M-Morty?"

            The boy hesitated, one foot over the threshold.

            "Um..." Morty began. Rick waited for him to finish. He couldn't afford not to.

            "I, um, had a nightmare," the teen confessed.

            Rick's owlish eyes blinked.

            "Sorry," the old man offered. "Was it... bad?"

            Morty nodded. He sniffed.

            "Did you... want to talk about it?" Rick prodded.

            "Kind of?" Morty asked. It was a question. He took a tiny step closer to his grandfather.

            "Oh," Rick said. He lifted a hand as if to place it on Morty's shoulder, but hesitated. "When you say ' kind of,' does that imply-"

            Morty closed the distance between them, looping his arms around his grandfather's torso tightly enough to be painful. Rick felt his ribs creak in protest.

            "Got it," He wheezed. He hugged Morty back with a tenderness that belied his years.

            "You died," Morty cried into Rick's sternum. "In my dream."

            "Hm."

            "And I w-was so scared."

            "Mhm."

            "Y-you're all I have left, R-R-Rick."

            Rick squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not going anywhere, buddy."

            "Please d-don't hate me for, for r-running away."

            "God. Morty."

            "I just can't-"

            "I don't hate you, Morty." Rick threaded his fingers through Morty's curly hair. The teen sobbed into Rick's chest, clutching the fabric of his lab coat tightly.

            "Rick..."

            Rick shut his eyes. "Kiddo. I... look. I mean... what I'm trying to say is... I love you more than anything. Okay?"

            Morty calmed down, just a little.

            "More than anything?" he whispered.

            "More than anything," Rick agreed, hiding his face in his grandson's hair.

           

* * *

 

            "Will you be here next summer?" Mabel asked over breakfast the next day.

            "Uh... I hadn't thought about it. I mean, probably. Why?" Rick spooned another bite of eggs into his mouth.

            "Dipper and I have to go back to Piedmont for school." She made a face.

            "In California?"

            "Yeah. But it would be neat if you were still here when we got back."

            Rick was quiet. He hadn't shown any particularly redeeming characteristics toward the twins - in fact he was positive that he had been downright horrible the entire time he had shared a home with them. And yet, Mabel still wanted to cultivate a friendship. He swallowed his eggs.

            "He'll be here," Stan confirmed from across the kitchen with a finality that impressed Rick. He wished he could be that certain of anything.

            "Uh, sure," Rick agreed. "I'll be here."

            "Cool!" Mabel said, features brightening.

            "Cool," Rick echoed, meeting Stan's gaze curiously from across the room. Stan smiled at him. After a few long seconds, the corners of Rick's mouth turned up in response.

            The world held a future for Rick Sanchez.


	8. Chapter 8

            "Hey Rick." A finger tapped his shoulder.

            Rick turned, expecting to see Stanley. He looked down. Dipper returned his gaze, jaw set with determination. Rick's unibrow curled delicately upward.

            "Uh, yeah. What's up?"

            "I have to ask you something."

            "Sure, kid." The twins' bags were packed and the living room echoed with a sense of preemptive vacancy, as though they had already returned to California. "What's up?"

            "Do you love him?" No preamble. Dipper's face, serious as ever, radiated concern.

            Rick thought about it for a long minute. "Yeah. I guess I do."

            "I mean... do you _really_ love him?"

            "Yeah. I don't need you questioning the, the validity of my emotions."

            Dipper scratched the side of his nose. "Yeah, I... sorry. I guess I just wanted to be sure."

            "You're worried I'll hurt him."

            Dipper changed tactic.

            "You left. Right? I haven't been able to dig up all the details, but... you and Grunkle Stan spent time together. In... prison." The second half of the word raised in pitch like a question. As if in Dipper's world, prison was something that simply didn't happen to people, and the very notion sounded strange to his ears.

            "Yeah. Colombia."

            "Right. But... you left him."

            Rick closed his eyes. "I came back, didn't I?"

            "Yeah. I guess so."

            The autumn sun was setting, much earlier in the day than Rick was prepared for. He shivered as the warming light slowly vanished below the windowsill.

            "Then what are you worried about?"

            Dipper's eyes cast furtively around the shack. Morty was nowhere to be seen.

            "Please don't hate me for this," the teen implored.

            "For what?"

            "I have to ask."

            "Yes?"

            "Um. I mean I know I won't see you again for a long time, and I don't want your last memory of me to be negative, but-"

            "I've only known you a couple months. I have very little o-opinion of you." This wasn't true. But Rick was a man of very little patience when it came to dancing around a topic, and it was easier to insult than to encourage.

            Dipper looked hurt, but masked it well.

            "Did you do it?" Dipper whispered.

            "Did I," Rick raised his fingers in air quotes, "'do' what?"

            "Did you kill them? Morty's parents?"

            Rick could hear his own breathing, ragged through his nostrils. His hands froze on their way down, not quite resting at his sides. He counted silently to ten.

            "Sorry," Dipper amended, beating a hasty retreat. "I know it's a sensitive subject."

            "Let's get these bags i-into the car," Rick announced to the room. He lifted a suitcase, unsure if it was Dipper's or Mabel's. He couldn't care less. It was heavy.

            "Hey!" Dipper jogged after him as he exited the shack and hefted the suitcase into the trunk of Stan's old red convertible. "Are you gonna answer me?"

            Rick lowered his voice, towering menacingly over Stan's great-nephew. "I'm gonna help load your bags into the car. I'm gonna get, uh, a-accompany you to the bus station. I am gonna sit in the passenger seat, m-maybe hold Stanley's hand the whole way there. I'm gonna get your things on the bus. And I'm gonna wave as you and your sister go to California. If you come back next summer, I'm gonna make sure you have a great time and a comfortable place to stay. And I'm gonna forget you ever asked me if I killed my own daughter." He straightened up, smiling like a piranha. "Got it?"

            "Got it." Dipper shivered.

            Rick doubled back to grab another bag from the pile in the living room. This time, Dipper did not follow.

 

* * *

 

            "You're quiet today," Stan murmured, tracing the paper veins on the back of Rick's hand with his thumb. The twins had been sent off, with a promise that they would call as soon as they arrived safely in Piedmont.

            Rick shrugged. The car was otherwise empty. Morty had chosen to stay home at the Shack, and Rick didn't blame him. Pine trees melted away at thirty miles an hour in the rearview as the convertible cruised back along the outskirts of town.

            "¿Qué pasa?"

            Rick's eyes remained stoically on the road ahead of them.

            "Me preguntó si los h-había matado," he mumbled. It was easier to say such things when it was just the two of them.

            Stan sighed heavily. "Dipper?"

            "Mm."

            Stan squeezed his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Rick saw his other hand tighten on the steering wheel. "That kid asks too many questions."

            "Lo dijo de labios para fuera."

"Esas preguntas lo matarán algún día."

            "That's why he has you, Stanley."

            "Hm," Stan said. "What did you tell him?"

            "I told him I was going to forget he ever asked."

            Stan shook his head. "You know something?" he asked after a long moment.

            "What?"

            "You know how I said you aren't Morty's parent?"

            Rick said nothing, waiting for the other man to continue.

            "I think maybe you're a better parent than anyone I know."

            Rick withdrew his hand from Stan's grasp. Stan returned his grip to the steering wheel. "Then por qué dijiste eso?"

            "I was upset." He said it calmly.

            "You didn't seem upset."

            Stan smiled wistfully. "I can put on as brave a face as you, Ricardo."

            Rick crossed his arms. "I'm not putting on anything."

            "Sure," Stan conceded gently.

            Rick stared grumpily out the passenger window for a few minutes. A thick white line painted on the side of the highway dripped by, giving the illusion that they weren't really moving at all. "Why were you upset?" he asked again when he couldn't keep curiosity at bay any longer.

            Stan sighed. He squeezed the wheel tightly, turning his knuckles white. "You know I always wanted kids."

            "Yeah," Rick agreed uncertainly.

            "I was jealous. Of you with Beth."

            Even the mention of her name cut deep. Rick shifted in his seat, trying to mask the blow it dealt him. "Why," he rasped, clearing his throat, "were you jealous?"

            "You got a life after prison. You were able to take her, go wherever you wanted, with your fancy portal toy. You vanished."

            "And?"

            "And... I kept going to jail. Three more times. I couldn't escape the cycle, Rickster." His eyes remained locked on the road, not yet able to face his lover. "I didn't have the ability to run like you did. I... wasn't smart enough."

            "Stanley-"

            "No, listen. I never wanted anything more than to have a life like you did, a daughter I could raise. And you went and threw it away."

            Rick was speechless. His shoulders tensed. He coughed.

            "I heard about you from time to time," Stan continued, either oblivious to Rick's pain or not ready to acknowledge it. "Squanchy sent me postcards. Sometimes. I heard you were still drinking. I heard that you had gone off on your own, and I heard about it when your grandkids were born. You always had this tendency to run from responsibility. It's one of the things I liked about you when we met. Now... I'm not so sure."

            "You really want to go down this road, L-Lee?" Rick asked, monotone.

            "No," Stan admitted. "I want to go home. I want to, christ, I want to pin you down and make love to you, and pretend we're still in our twenties and Colombian currency is still at a low exchange rate."

            "Those days are l-long gone." Rick hid his disappointment in his flask.

            "I _love_ you, Sanchez. But god damn if you haven't done some stupid shit."

            "It wasn't my _fault!_ " Rick nearly screamed. The flask dropped to the floor of the convertible. He hicupped, surprising himself. "It wasn't my fault," he repeated, slightly calmer.

            "Well, that hit a nerve."

            Rick collected his thoughts for a long second. "My daughter," he breathed, "was the greatest thing to ever happen to me."

            "And that's why you left her?"

            Rick shook his head.

            "Don't," Stan warned, "pit me against Dipper."

            "I'm not 'pitting' you against anyone! I'm just telling you what he sai-"

            "He's as close to a son as I'm gonna get," Stan interjected authoritatively. "I love him."

            "Fine. You know what. Fine."

            "I love you too. But I won't let you fuck this up for me."

 

* * *

 

            "M-morty?"

            "Yeah, Rick?"

            Rick stepped into the darkened guest bedroom, shoulders bent. The Shack was night-quiet. He shuffled forward to his grandson. Wordlessly, he coiled his arms around the teens' shoulders, squeezing him once.

            "Oh..." Morty said, confused.

            "Don't worry about it," Rick whispered, squeezing him once more for good measure.

            "Thanks?" Morty asked.

            Rick managed to make it back to the hallway before the first tear hit the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

            Morty knocked on the door. It made Rick laugh.

            "Y-y-you don't need to knock to, to come into the _hall_ way, dipshit," Rick muttered wetly.

            Morty opened the door to his bedroom and joined his grandfather in the hall. He closed it quietly behind him, as if locking his own opinions away. Rick sure wondered what went through the kid's head sometimes.

            "Stanley's mad at you, huh?" Morty mumbled wearily. He tugged at the hem of the pajama shirt Dipper had lent him. Morty was taller than the Pines twins, and the shirt rode mercilessly up his sides.

            Rick hid a hiccup in his flask, leaning heavily against the wooden wall. His silence answered Morty's question better than words ever could.

            "Look, man..." Morty said, after a very long pause. "I don't think you killed her."

            Every muscle in Rick's body tensed. "Of course I didn't kill her you little-" he began reflexively, before wisely shutting his mouth. He shook his head weakly.

            "And from my, my research, it doesn't seem like you could've really helped her, either."

            Rick made a small sound in the back of his throat.

            "She dies," Morty continued relentlessly, looking ridiculous in Dipper's old pajamas, "in every garage in every universe. Sooner or later. Rick..."

            The old man let out a shuddering breath.

            "We gotta do this here? In the, the fucking hallway, for chrissake?" He pinched the bridge of his nose.

            Morty shrugged. He pointed suggestively at the ceiling. Rick nodded, swallowing hard against his too-tight throat. They padded silently down the hall, and Rick reached up and pulled the attic ladder down. The old wood whispered softly against the ancient carpeted floor. They climbed.

            "Quiet enough for you?" Morty asked without emotion upon pulling the attic door shut behind them.

            Rick brushed sawdust from his knees. He nodded again.

            "Look, Rick..." Morty tried. "I mean. You're... not a good person."

            "Fuck you too," Rick replied hoarsely.

            "Rick."

            "God. What?"

            "Please don't take that the wrong way. I just-"

            "Really, Morty?"

            "Fine, fucking, fine. Take it whatever way you want." He was starting to get annoyed. "J-just, hear me out, would you?"

            Rick grunted.

            "You, you're not a good person," Morty continued brazenly. "You're an alcoholic, cynical, e-evil bastard who fucks up everyone he meets. But y'know... I really don't. I don't think you killed her. Because, y-you loved her." He swallowed.

            Rick looked down. "You're goddamn right I loved her."

            Morty sighed. He crossed his arms.

            "I was the one who told Dipper to ask you about mom."

            Rick's world stopped. "You... what?"

            "I thought maybe I'd get an honest answer if it was from, y'know, an outside perspective."

            Rick was quiet for a long time.

            "A-and Dipper loves a good mystery, so, I thought... well..." Morty shrugged.

            "He's fucking _thirteen,_ " Rick hissed suddenly. "I, I expect this from _you_ , but him? That's morbid as hell. You could have just talked to-"

            "Talked to _you_? You're out of your mind, Rick. When you're not drunk, you're just, just moping around, or fucking Stanley, or-"

            Rick punched him. He didn't mean to, exactly, and it wasn't hard, but he punched him nonetheless.

            "Ow! What the hell Rick!" Morty cradled his jaw with both hands.

            Rick stared at him for a long time, lips slightly parted. The teen shuffled a few paces backward.

            Without a word, the old man turned, unlatched the attic door, and descended the ladder. His hands shook as he crossed the darkened hallway. A light flicked on underneath Stan's bedroom door. He heard a cough and a mumbled "Rickster?" and his pace quickened.

            He unbolted the front door and ran out into the cold night air, breathing hard. He closed the door behind him.

            "Rick," Stan's muffled voice rang from inside the shack.

            Rick stuffed a hand in his mouth and bit down on his forefinger. His eyes cast about wildly. There had to be something. Someplace he could hide.

            Muffled voices pressed through the closed door.

            "-m fine, Stan, he just-"

            "He _hit_ you?"

            Fuck. Stan had found Morty. Or Morty had found Stan. Either way, Rick was fucked. Absolutely fucked.

            A high-pitched moan escaped the old man's lips. He stumbled across the wooden deck. A light snow had started to fall, and his feet slipped on the wet surface. His hip connected hard with the board. The resulting thump echoed through the trees.

            "Sanchez!" Stanley shouted. Oh god, he was _fucked._

            Rick tried to get up, but his hip was on fire after his fall. He stifled a groan with his fist. He tasted blood. He scooted shakily across the planks, pulling his weight with his other arm. He could never face Stan or Morty again. Not after tonight. The doorknob turned - time was running out.

            Mercifully, his fingers grazed the lip of the top step.

            Rick tumbled gracelessly down the two steps at the edge of the deck. He inhaled painfully. His teeth dug into his knuckle.

            The front door opened, and Stan's bulky frame was silhouetted in golden light. "Sanchez!" he yelled angrily.

            Rick rolled under the deck.

            Stanley stomped across the planks. "Sanchez!" he yelled again. "I know you're out here!"

            Rick stayed quiet.

            "What the _fuck_ did you do, Sanchez?" Stan screamed. Oh, god.

            A tear rolled down Rick's cheek. A breeze swirled around him and he shivered, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.

            "S-Stanley!" Morty was yelling. A smaller pair of footsteps joined the larger, more menacing ones tramping around above Rick. "Stanley, c-calm down."

            "I can't let him hurt you like that, Morty," Stan replied, monotone.

            "He didn't mean it, he just-"

            "And what's to say he won't do it again, huh?" Stan interrogated. "He's unpredictable."

            "Stanley!"

            Stan's heavy footsteps echoed above Rick once more. "Sanchez!" he bellowed. Rick winced. He hadn't heard Stanley Pines this angry in a long, long time.

            "Stanley! Stanley. Please-" Morty was saying.

            "Morty, he _hit_ you."

            Rick stifled another sob.

            "I provoked him!" Morty yelled. The woods were suddenly quiet. The air was cold.

            "You... what?" Stan asked. Rick shivered uncontrollably, mere inches under their feet. His hip throbbed.

            "I egged him on. Don't you see?" Morty pleaded. " _I_ asked Dipper to talk to him about my mom. _I_ was trying to figure out whether h-he, whether he killed her or not." The boy's gulp was audible even from under the deck. "If you're gonna be mad at someone, be mad at me," Morty mumbled resignedly.

            Rick squeezed his eyes shut. Saltwater flowed freely down his face. He didn't dare wipe it off.

            Stan's breath was audible. Rick could picture him clenching and unclenching his fists. "Is that true?" he rasped after a long minute.

            "Y-yeah," Morty admitted.  

            Stan sighed. "He shouldn't have hit you," he admonished, a little calmer.

            "I know."

            "You okay?"

            "I'm okay."

            The boards creaked above Rick as Stan took a few steps closer to the house. "Come on back inside, kiddo. It's freezing out here."

            "O-okay."

            Morty's feet followed Stanley's back into the Mystery Shack. The front door clicked shut. After a few minutes, the porchlight that had shone through the cracks of the boards buzzed out of existence. It was unbearably quiet, and pitch black, and colder than Rick Sanchez could possibly comprehend. He shivered with frost, and he shivered with shock. His hip was becoming unbearable.

            When he was sure that everything was completely still, he let out one long, earnest sob.

            Then, it was dark.


	10. Chapter 10

            "Hey Mister Sanchez," a voice crooned in Rick's ear. "Are you awake? Mister Sanchez?"

            Rick cracked open one eye. It was Soos.

            "Hng... ah!" He tried to sit up and hit his forehead on the deck above him. "What the _hell?"_ he hissed.

            "Mister Sanchez, forgive my saying this, but you don't look so good."

            The handyman lay on his stomach, head and shoulders pressed underneath the tiny opening Rick had wormed through last night. The rest of his frame was too bulky to fit into the crawlspace. It was day now, and muted sunlight filtered through the gaps between the planks.

            It was freezing.

            "Go away." Rick tried for menacing, but his voice was a whistling rasp in the cold. He cleared his throat a few times. God, his hip hurt.

            Soos considered for a long second.

            "Did you sleep out here, Mister Sanchez?"

            "W-w-what's it to you?"

            "I think you should come inside."

            "F-f-free country. Think w-whatever you w-want."

            "Will you come inside, Mister Sanchez?"

            "Does S-Stan know I'm out h-h-here?"

            "Hey Stan!" Soos yelled. "Stan!"

            "What?" Rick hissed. "No! Shut up!"

            "Huh?"

            "He doesn't kn-know I'm out h-h-here, right?"

            Realization dawned upon Soos's face. "Ohhh! I get it! You're hiding!"

            "Y-yeah, real, real good observation."

            "Nice!" Soos exclaimed in a loud whisper. Rick rolled his eyes. "I love hide and seek. Uh... who _are_ you hiding from, Mister Sanchez?"

            Rick sighed, a long rattling breath that tapered off into a wheeze. "It w-won't m-m-matter if he _finds_ me, w-will it?"

            "Right, right. I gotcha, Mister Sanchez. One hundred percent." Soos backed out of the crawlspace, giving him a thumbs-up as he went. After a few seconds, he popped his head in again. "But aren't you cold?"

            "Soos, please g-go away."

            "Do you want me to bring you a jacket?"

            "N-n-n- _no_ , Soos."

            "Hm," Soos said with a frown. "Okey dokey. Just come inside when you're finished playing. I think Stan's worried about you."

            "Heh," Rick coughed. "Sure."

            "All righty. Good luck!" Soos gave another thumbs up and backed out of the crawlspace again. Rick heard the front door close a few seconds later.

            He pushed himself up on his elbows, using his arms to pull himself forward a few inches. He scanned the front yard, blinking a few times to readjust his eyes to daylight. It was empty.

            He couldn't stay here. His reputation was beyond tarnished. His daughter was dead. He had physically attacked both his grandson and his lover. He had threatened Dipper. Rick weighed his options.

            His spaceship was only a few yards from his hiding place. If he could make it that far, he could fly to a real bolthole and hunker down for a few days. His portal gun was still inside the Mystery Shack, so that was a non-starter. He could just stay under the deck, but with the weather turning, there was no telling how long it would take for him to die of hypothermia. Or starvation. Or the black widows that lived in the woodwork. And anyway, he had made a promise to Stanley.

            It would be a real shame, he thought, if he were to die under that deck. Gravity Falls was about to freeze over, and his body would be preserved until the spring. And then what? He'd start to decay, and they'd find him once his organs started to reek. When would that be? March? April? No, he decided. Suicide, no matter how pathetic, was no longer an option.

            Rick set his jaw and shimmied out into the sunlight. His body was stiff, but otherwise in working order - or so he thought, until he tried to stand. After his fall last night, his left hip wouldn't support any weight. He collapsed into the frozen mud.

            "Fuck," he whispered, biting down on one fist. "O-of course."

            Face pale, he pulled himself forward on his wrists and right knee. His left leg trailed behind him. Crawling would leave tracks, especially on the frozen ground, but Rick didn't have time to care about that. He scooted forward as fast as his arms would carry him. It was only a matter of time before Stan looked out the front window and saw him - or worse, Morty. He had to make it to the ship.

            _Damn_ , but his leg hurt. Every drag against the gravel made him want to sob. But he kept going. He owed it to Morty.

            The rusty old ship loomed ahead. Rick's fingers brushed one of its legs and he could have laughed with joy. He was home free. He was going to make it.

            He shakily pulled himself up, standing beside the door. The keys were inside the shack - with his portal gun no doubt. He cursed and started to feel around for the secondary emergency latch underneath the windshield. There it was.

            The latch clicked and the door opened, creaking in protest after weeks of disuse. Rick started to pull himself inside.

            Something hit the back of his head, hard.

            "Not today, Sanchez," Stanley's voice growled.

            Rick's vision went black.

 

* * *

 

            "You know, I think I resented you because you were always better than me." Stanley's voice swirled around Rick as he slowly regained consciousness. The room was dark, illuminated by one yellowing lamp in one corner.

            Rick groaned. He tilted his head to one side, squinting in the direction the voice was coming from. Stanley was sitting at the end of the bed - Stan's bedroom. The curtains were drawn. Rick had no idea what time it was.

            "Lee," he moaned.

            "You were always smarter than me," Stan continued relentlessly. "Smarter than everyone. Talented. Athletic. Beautiful." His voice broke slightly on the last word. He cleared his throat.

            "We gotta do this now Lee-"

            "And when you had Beth, I was jealous. I was happy for you, don't get me wrong. But I was jealous."

            "Lee please, we already had this talk-"

            "You had every opportunity to be there for her. And for Morty. And you squandered it, Rick."

            "Damn it Lee-"

            "I spent a _third_ of my life in prison. A third. Just shut up and listen, okay? I only wanted a family. Or even just a constant friend, you know? Someone to count on. And there was no one. Even when I thought I found someone..." Stan scrubbed his face with a hand. "Anyway, I haven't been afforded the same privilege as you. Even with the Shack, and the twins - I only get to see them once a year. You can see Morty any time you want. I mean, you practically get to raise the kid. And you go and _hit_ him? You run away because you don't want to take responsibility?"

            Rick shivered.

            "Do you have _anything_ to say for yourself?" Stan whispered.

            Rick said nothing. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

            "You're not the person I thought you were." Stan's weight left the bed as he stood. Rick felt as though the ground had been torn out from under him. "Your hip's bruised pretty bad, but not broken. I'd give it a few days before putting any weight on it."

            "Lee-"

            "There's a pair of crutches by the bedpost. Do whatever you want."

            "Lee please-"

            Stanley closed the door quietly behind him as he left. Somehow that hurt Rick more than anything else. He wanted to hear the slam. He wished for Stan's anger - he knew how to deal with an angry Stan. He had no idea what to do with this cold, apathetic man who had taken his place.

            "Lee!" he yelled once, futilely.

            He sat up slowly and painfully. He prodded his hip experimentally - Stan was right. It was bruised, and when he pulled the fabric of his shirts and pants away from the wound to examine it, the skin was an angry mottled shade of navy. But it was not broken.

            He shakily pushed himself to the edge of the bed, grasping the crutches that leaned against the bedpost. With a wince, he stood and went to the window. The crutches were awkward and slightly too short, but they would do.

            When he pulled the shades back from the window, he was a little surprised to discover that it was still day. It couldn't have been too long since Stan had decked him. He hobbled to the door and went into the hallway, stopping to lean against the grandfather clock for a few seconds. It was going to take him a while to get used to the crutches.

            "Lee?" he called out hoarsely. "M-Morty?"

            No answer. He frowned.

            He crutched himself into the living room. "Morty?" he asked the empty room.

            Voices drifted in from outside. He awkwardly hobbled to the front window, leaning forward to look. Morty stood in the driveway beside Stan, shoulders hunched slightly forward, hands in pockets to ward off the cold. Stan was collecting pieces of metal into a garbage bag. Metal? The window had fogged up a little with Rick's face right next to it. Rick wiped the condensation off with his sleeve and peered out again. He frowned.

            His ship was wrecked.

            A crowbar lay discarded to one side. The windshield was shattered, a thousand diamonds glittering in the gravel. The door was ripped from its casing, and the chassis was badly dented.

            "Hell," Rick breathed. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened.

            Morty's shoulders shook lightly. Was he crying?

            Rick limped out the front door. It took a moment to negotiate the stairs, but he eventually made it to the driveway. Glass and rock crunched under his heels.

            Stan didn't greet him.

            "Morty," Rick said.

            "Geez Rick, I-I-I'm sorry," the kid sobbed, throwing his arms around the old man.

            "What?" Rick's brow furrowed.

            "I wrecked y-y-your ship... I thought... you were gonna leave a-a-and I just-"

            "Morty," Rick breathed. He put his arms around his grandson's shoulders. The crutches fell to either side of him. He wobbled unsteadily, leaning on the boy for support.

            Morty clutched his lab coat tightly. "Please don't leave, Rick," he wept.

            "Morty, Morty," Rick murmured, lips brushing the boy's hair. Stan watched him wordlessly, arms crossed. The garbage bag lay forgotten at his feet.

            " _You_ wrecked the ship?" he asked.

            Morty nodded, his grip tightening slightly on Rick's coat.

            "Damn kid," Rick breathed. He brought one hand to the back of Morty's neck, stroking his hair twice. "We gotta, gotta get you some baseball lessons."

            Morty laughed wetly. He pulled back slightly.

            "Y-you're not m-mad at me?"

            Rick shook his head mutely.

            "Kid's got a killer swing, huh?" Stan offered mildly. His eyes remained hardened, but Rick met his gaze, nodding slowly. Stanley inclined his head, then returned to picking up the larger shards from the driveway.

            "Killer," Rick agreed quietly. He squeezed the boy close to him.

            "Ah, Rick..." Morty mumbled into his chest.

            "I think it's time we ought to start t-talk, uh, communicating better. What do you say, kiddo?"

            "Yeah Rick," Morty sniffed.

            Rick stroked his hair a few more times.

            "Cool," Rick whispered hoarsely.

            "Cool," Morty agreed between shaky breaths.

            "Cool," Rick parroted awkwardly, squeezing Morty tightly.

            "Uh... yeah. Y-you can let go of me now Rick, I'm okay..."

            "Um-"

            Morty pulled back from him with a sniff, detaching Rick's arms from his shoulders.

            "Whoa Morty, I-" Rick lost his footing and crumpled over his bad hip. Or at least he would have, if Stan hadn't caught him by the shoulder.

            The burly man leaned down, picking up Rick's crutches for him. "Careful with these," he muttered, handing them back to the scientist with a light scowl. "I won't always be around to catch you."

            Rick shivered.

            "W-what happened to you?" Morty asked quietly as Stan returned to bagging garbage.

            "Uh. Slipped and fell on some ice last night."

            "Did you sleep outside?"

            "In the ship," Rick lied. Stan raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

            "Oh," Morty said, looking ashamed. "I... didn't see you in there. When I looked."

            "I went for a walk first. Needed to, to clear my head."

            "O-okay, Rick," Morty said, ready to let the matter drop. "Just as long as you aren't going anywhere."

            "I'm not, buddy." His eyes found Stan's. "I'm staying right here."


	11. Chapter 11

            "Talk," Stan commanded, thrusting the cell phone into Rick's hand once they were settled in the living room. The scientist was captive, bound by his injured hip to the couch. "Dipper. Apologize."

            Rick warily raised the phone to his ear.

            "Uh... hello?"

            "Hey," Dipper's voice crackled on the other end. The reception in the forest was poor.

            "Hey," Rick acknowledged. He cleared his throat.

            "Rick I'm sorry-"

            "No, stop, stop. Dipper."

            "I honestly didn't mean-"

            "Dipper, _I'm_ sorry." He glanced up.

            Stanley's eyes softened, just a little. He nodded once at Rick and left the room.

            "What? Why are you sorry?" Dipper asked. "I'm the one who said all those things."

            "I didn't realize m-my grandson had put you up to it. It, uh, wasn't fair. To you."

            Rick dragged a hand across his chin, brushing stubble. These tough conversations were getting old. He could feel Stan listening, ear pressed against the opposite side of the living room wall.

            "I'm still sorry," Dipper mumbled. Rick tried to picture the kid's face. "I was wrong to ask if you killed... if you did those things."

            "No... you were just curious. I mean. If I was in y-y-your position I'd have wanted to know the truth. Heh," he moved the receiver to his other hand, "I'd want to know if I was sharing a house with a murderer."

            "God," Dipper moaned.

            "No, seriously. You're probably the sanest person in this family."

            It took both of them a second to realize what Rick had implied.

            "Family?" Dipper asked. "So you're staying?"

            "Oh, I, uh, I-I-I didn't mean-"

            "No, I think it's good. I mean... you really do love Grunkle Stan?"

            A splinter pierced Rick's heart. He cleared his throat.

            "Uh, yeah," he rasped, glancing at the wall he knew Stanley was hiding behind. "I do."

            "And you're not _actually_ a murderer?"

            "No. Well, not really."

            "Not really?"

            "Clones. And some aliens. Not real people, so it doesn't count."

            "Oh." Rick could practically hear the boy thinking. "Is that why you went to prison?"

            "No," Rick said, shaking his head. "That was for stealing. Stan and I tried a heist. Got caught."

            "In Colombia."

            "Yep."

            "Wow."

            "Yep."

            "But you're sure it wasn't for murder?"

            "What do you mean am I _sure?_ " Christ, the kid was daft. "It _happened_ to me. What, you w-want me to go back and check or something?"

            "Okay, okay," Dipper conceded. "So you're not a murderer."

            " _No,_ Dipper."

            "Cool. Just making sure."

            "I will one hundred percent not murder anyone in this household."

            "That's good." Dipper laughed with relief. Rick felt his own face ease into a smile. Maybe this call wasn't such a bad idea after all. "Hey, um... Morty's not mad at me, is he?"

            "Morty? Why would he be mad at you?" Rick sat up a little straighter.

            "I got the feeling he wanted a different answer. When I told him you didn't do it, he seemed... disappointed? Or just like... unsatisfied."

            "Hm," Rick sighed. "Morty and I have a, a mutually destructive relationship," he explained wearily.

            "What does that mean?"

            "Uh... doesn't matter. Point is, he isn't mad at you. Come to think of it, he should probably be apologizing to you, too. But h-he isn't mad." Through the door, Rick could just make out the kitchen window. It had been replaced since his fight with Stan, and the new glass shone incongruously to the timeless wooden walls of the Mystery Shack. A light snow was beginning to fall outside. "Don't worry about it."

            "Thanks," Dipper said uncertainly. "I think."

            "No problem. I'll see you next summer?"

            "Definitely."

            "Awesome. Enjoy th-that California sunshine."

            "Will do, Grunkle Rick."

            The line went silent. Rick hit the end button.

            Grunkle Rick. He wondered how he felt about that. Even his own grandson called him by his first name. Beth had been the only person to ever use family honorifics with him, and now that she was gone, he had resigned himself to being just Rick.

            "Grunkle," he whispered to himself, tasting the feel of it on his tongue. He made a face. What an ugly word. Stan probably found it hilarious.

            "You get everything out in the open?" Stan asked, entering the room casually, as if he hadn't been eavesdropping the entire time.

            "You gotta tell him about Colombia sometime," Rick remarked, handing over the phone and reclining back on the cushion. "He's chomping at the bit for some, some gossip."

            "That's our Dipper for you."

            Stan sat on the couch, maintaining a respectable couple of inches between himself and Rick.

            "Hey," Rick said, shoulders curled inward.

            "Hey yourself," Stan replied gruffly. He picked up the remote control, fidgeting with it for a couple of seconds before placing it down next to him.

            "Stan-"

            "Rick-"

            They cut each other off, smiling small smiles.

            "Sorry I knocked you unconscious," Stanley offered.

            "Sorry for running away," Rick countered.

            Stanley sucked in a long breath. He looked tired.

            "I want to make this work," he declared. "I really love you, Rick."

            "I r-really love you too," Rick replied, almost shyly.

            "But we need to set some ground rules."

            "Agreed."

            "No running away. No fistfights."

            "Sure."

            "No suicide. No blackout drinking."

            "Well-"

            " _No_ suicide."

            "No suicide." Rick thought for a second. "I'm still going to drink."

            "Fine. Just... not around me."

            Rick scrutinized him. For the first time, he registered Stan's sunken eyes and red nose, monuments to a lifetime of drinking.

            "Oh," Rick said, a belated realization.

            "I quit before Dipper and Mabel came to visit," Stan said with forced carelessness. No big deal. "I won't drink around them."

            "Okay. No drinking around you or the twins. That's, that's fine," Rick acquiesced.

            "And," Stan continued, "I want you to marry me."

            Rick stared stupidly. "You want what?"

            "Marry me." Stan removed his glasses. "Please."

            "Fuck," Rick breathed. "You're serious."

            "Dead serious."

            "You, uh, you got a ring?"

            "Probably have some in the shop. Mood rings, tourist stuff."

            "You want to marry me with a mood ring."

            "Why not?"

            Rick stared at him. He blinked several times. He sniffed.

            "Fuck," he muttered into the sleeve of his lab coat.

            "'Fuck' is usually not the correct answer when someone proposes," Stan observed, reaching up to smooth a few flyaway strands of Rick's hair.

            " _Damn_ it, Stanley," Rick whispered. He leaned forward, burying his face in the collar of Stan's worn suit. "You fucking piece of shit."

            "The worst person you know," Stan said with a smile. He stroked his lover's hair, letting the weight of his arms rest on Rick's back.

            "The fucking worst," Rick agreed with a sob. "L-let's get married, asshole."

            Stan's body shook with silent jolly laughter.

            "That's the first intelligent thing you've ever said."

            Rick cried with relief, letting Stan hold him like a child. His gangly limbs spilled over the side of the couch.

            "Um... hello? Rick?" Morty asked warily, tapping the side of the living room door as he entered the room from the kitchen. "I thought I heard fighting, are you... ah, geez.."

            "Hey, kiddo," Stan said. Rick could practically feel his grin radiating across the room.

            "Is he okay?" Morty asked tiredly. He didn't want to do this again.

            Rick sniffed, sat up, and wiped his eyes.

            "I-I'm okay, Mort." He gave Stanley a small smile. "I'm getting married."

            "O-okay?"

            Stanley laughed. " _We're_ getting married. It's a two-way transaction."

            "Okay," Morty agreed, a small grin working its way onto his face as well. "That's great, Rick! Really great."

            "Come here, kiddo," Rick said, patting the seat next to him.

            Morty obligingly sat, giving his grandfather a hug. It felt good. For the first time in a long time, the two of them weren't motivated by grief, or guilt. Rick let it linger, this feeling of family and wholeness.

            "Have you told Dipper and Mabel yet?" Morty asked.

            "I only just asked him," Stan explained gently. "We'll get to it."

            "Okay. Cool! I'm, I'm really happy for you guys." Morty's smile was genuine.

            Rick's heart ached, but it was a different kind of ache - a pleasant ache. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

            "You like Gravity Falls?" Rick asked.

            "I do," Morty said with a nod. "I could definitely get used to it."

            "And the Mystery Shack?"

            "Yep."

            "That's good," Rick said. He curled up against Stanley's side, wiping the corners of his eyes. Stanley obligingly draped an arm over Rick's shoulders. He reached for the remote control with his other hand. Morty smiled and settled into the space beside his grandfather. The old television flickered to life. Despite the snow, the living room was warm.

            "I think we're going to be here for a long time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)   
> suicidepreventionlifeline.org
> 
>  
> 
> I tell you what, this one has been a fucking journey, guys


End file.
